“You’re welcome,” I tell her. “It’s not conditional.”
Her eyes flick to mine, searching for the catch. When she doesn’t find it, some coil I can’t see loosens a quarter turn.
“I’ll go shower while you eat,” I say, sensing she needs quiet and space to adjust to her new surroundings.
When I return, dressed in a clean T-shirt and joggers, Sadie is curled up in the chair near the hearth. A gust of wind stirs the pines outside. The windowpanes hum.
She glances toward it like she’s listening for more than weather. So am I. There’s a difference between wind and a car engine at idle. Tonight, I only hear the wind.
“Thank you for the meal,” Sadie says as I sit on the couch, maintaining a respectful distance. “It was delicious. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
“I guess food hasn’t been a priority.”
Sadie shakes her head, her eyes sad. “Not for a while.” She pauses, biting her lip. “About the sleeping arrangements…”
“It’s a small place,” I say gently. “One bedroom.”
She nods slowly.
“You’re taking the bed,” I add, firm but calm. “I’ll take the couch.”
She frowns. “I can take the couch. I want to stay near Maisie.”
I glance toward the dog, curled in a blanket beside the hearth, snoring like a miniature chainsaw. Sadie’s hand keeps drifting toward her unconsciously, her fingers brushing the fringe of the blanket as if she needs to remind herself that the dog is still breathing.
“I can bring her into the bedroom?—”
She’s already shaking her head. “No. Here’s better. If she whines or wakes up, I want to be right next to her.”
The way she says it isn’t about comfort. It’s about control. And control is the closest thing she has to safety. I won’t take that from her.
I nod. “I’ll grab the spare duvet and pillows.”
I return from the hall with the bedding tucked under one arm and a folded flannel blanket in the other. The couch creaks softly as I kneel, fluffing the pillow, spreading out the duvet, and folding the blanket at the edge in case the temperature drops again tonight.
My ribs twinge as I straighten, a dull, familiar pull beneath the scar. I rub the spot absently.
“Does it hurt?”
I turn to find Sadie’s eyes locked on mine.
“Aches now and then,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
She shifts her weight, tucking her legs beneath her. For a second, the domesticity of the moment tightens around my lungs—her curled on the chair, firelight flickering across her face like it was always meant to be this way.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “For what happened. For… whatever caused it.”
Most people pity the wound. She recognizes the weight. It disarms me more than any bullet ever did.
I shake my head. “Don’t be. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“No, but I know what it’s like. To carry pain that doesn’t always show.”
Her words hang there, raw and unpolished, but something about their honesty settles deep.
I walk to the hearth and adjust the firewood, stoking the flame higher to give her more warmth. When I turn back, her eyes are on me again. Watching. Not guarded anymore—just there. As if she’s letting me glimpse the version of her that existed before fear rewrote her edges.
I move toward the hallway. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” I pause at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. “If you need anything?—”
